


Fluffy Blankets and Hot Cocoa

by TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, John needs a place to rest, M/M, Mycroft has fluffy pillows, Mycroft is very fluffy, POV Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-19 23:36:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3628470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy/pseuds/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is asked by John to pick him up.</p>
<p>Based on a ask box tumblr prompt by http://the-detectives-blogger.tumblr.com/<br/>"Your brother is going to be the death of me. Come rescue me. JW"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fluffy Blankets and Hot Cocoa

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy some fluffy Mycroft. I love fluffy Mycroft! :D

Mycroft stirred in his sleep. What was that sound? Ugh… Probably not important. He dragged the blanket back over his head. His inner clock wasn’t working, head too foggy. But it was dark and felt way, way too early to be awake.

There it was again. He tried to place the sound. It sounded like… wait, a ringtone? But not one he recognised. Mycroft groaned. Of course. It was his private phone, not the one he used for work. He rarely heard that ringtone. No one bothered to call him. Except his parents, but those messages were far in between.

An arm was extended from below the sea of blankets and pillows. If anyone would ever see the British government sleep in this pile of fluffiness, they would certainly laugh. Luckily, no one would ever be allowed in this bedroom. A few careful, searching grabs on the top of the nightstand and a mobile phone was dragged underneath the covers.

The light almost blinded Mycroft, as the screen flickered to life. He blinked a few times and gave himself a moment to adjust to the unnatural light under the blanket. After reading the message, it also took a few moments to adjust himself to the content.

Your brother is going to be the death of me. Come rescue me. JW

Mycroft blinked again. Now, it was not because of the light, but because he could not process what he had just read. Okay, start from what was obvious. JW. That meant that the message had been sent by John Watson. John. A quick check of the number confirmed it.

Alright. So far, so good. Next.

‘Your brother is going to be the death of me.’ Well, that was a notion he could fully understand. With Sherlocks cheerful disposition, it was not an unnatural thing for John to feel this way. Mycroft couldn’t exactly imagine what his brother was currently up to, but it probably involved being bored and obnoxious. Nothing new here.

Now the last part of the message was something he couldn’t comprehend... ‘Come rescue me.’? Mycroft emerged from his blanket and pillow pile. He felt like he needed some air. Settling back into a big, fluffy pillow as headrest, he brought the phone screen up again, illuminating his face in the dark.

So John wanted him to rush over and take him away from Baker Street? Was he actually in trouble? Why would he call Mycroft? The older Holmes couldn’t actually imagine a situation, which could be worse than anything else, which had happened so far. Nothing, which would prompt for John to call for help in this way.

But what if it actually was serious? Mycroft pondered the situation for a while. No, if it was, John would have written the message in a different way. This was not the message from someone under stress from danger, but someone, who was really, really annoyed. If it was Sherlock, who was the source of the stress (as the message implied), it would… make logical sense to ask help of the only other person, who understood Sherlock’s moods. Especially at 3:20am during the night.

Huh, 3:20am? Mycroft yawned at the thought. Unbelieveable. Well, he was awake now, so he might as well answer John.

The death of you? It must be dire if you text me at this hour. MH

Mycroft turned off the phone screen, shrouding the whole bedroom in darkness. He always slept with the curtains closed and no sources of light in his room. Perfect darkness made him feel comfortable. There was always so, so much going on during the day. It was not that he didn’t enjoy the hustle and bustle of his day job - his calling, really - but when he required rest, he needed the absolute opposite. Darkness and silence.

But that darkness and silence was quickly interrupted when his phone lit up again.

I’m going crazy. I need to get out of here. Pick me up. JW

Mycroft stared at the screen. Surely John would have other people to call, if he wanted a lift? Why would he text Mycroft? They never did anything together. Mycroft wouldn’t even consider them friends - a term, he always eyed with caution. But John could actually be the closest thing to a friend he currently had, when he thought about it. Well, this wasn’t about him, it was about John’s choice. He just couldn’t figure out why he had the one being texted. It irked him. Now he was fully awake.

Pick you up? Surely you are able to leave Baker Street when you want to? MH

Getting up at this hour wasn’t a hassle. Mycroft didn’t keep regular office times, anyway. When a crisis arose, he had been out of bed at worse times, with less sleep. It wasn’t so much about leaving the bed, as about the mystery that was John Watson, texting him.

Yeah, I don’t need adult supervision to leave the house. But it’s 3:30 in the morning, and I’d rather not sit around outside at this hour. JW

You’re suggesting I have you picked up to spend the rest of the night at my house? MH

Now you’re getting it. So, when is the car here? JW

Mycroft snorted. John was being bossy. No one had the nerve to talk to him like that. Was that a thing friends did? He found himself enjoying the banter more than he thought. Well, what harm could it do to invite the doctor over for the rest of the night? If anyone could understand the troubles Sherlock could put you through, it was Mycroft.

You win. I’ll have the car round in 20 minutes. MH

Much obliged. See you later. JW

Mycroft sighed. Out of bed it was. A message to his driver later, he peeled the layers of fluffy blankets from him and slid from the high bed. As his naked feet touched the floor, he shivered. It was autumn, after all. Jumping onto the carpet in the middle of the room, he then approached the chair, over which his robe was hanging. He was not going to dress himself completely for John’s arrival. It was in the middle of the night, and the doctor was the one intruding. He should be able to cope with Mycroft in a pyjama, robe and slippers.

Mycroft slowly walked down to the kitchen, only stopping at a large mirror in the hallway for a few seconds to fix his unruly head of bed hair. He proceeded to draw a glass of water and sat down on a chair at the kitchen table. A yawn escaped him. Oh, the things he did because of his brother...

The doorbell rang. Mycroft opened his eyes. He had fallen asleep with his head on the kitchen table. Embarrassing. Luckily, no one had seen him. Quickly straightening himself up, he cleared his throat once and walked over to the entrance door. A peek through the peephole on the door revealed that John had arrived. In the background, the car was still visible, waiting until John had entered the house. Mycroft send a message to the driver, thanking him for being ready so quickly, even though it was his job. The politician expected his workers to be available at all times, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t grateful for their work. He braced himself and opened the door.

“Why, hello John. Lovely to see you. What brings you here at this ungodly hour?”, Mycroft welcomed John with a sarcastic smirk.

“Sherlock,” came the tired answer. John walked past Mycroft into the hallway without another word. The other man closed the door behind him.

They walked to the kitchen together, where John slumped down on the chair, which Mycroft had previously occupied. He grabbed the glass of water, which the other had left there and took a sip.

“I gathered that Sherlock had something to do with it,” Mycroft opened up the conversation again. “What has he done this time? No case?”

“No, he has a case, alright. A bloody interesting one, too,” John sighed and put his head in his hands. “A fucking bloody interesting one. So interesting, he cannot, for the love of god, SHUT.UP. about it.”

“I’m sensing some tension there,” Mycroft chuckled and sat down next to John.

He only received a low grumble as answer. Not wanting to press anything, the politician got up and fetched two cups from one of the shelves. Luckily he had the fanciest coffee maker, one could find on the market, installed in his kitchen. The function, he was most proud of was a hot cocoa button, which he pressed after positioning the mug. He always refrained from drinking it on his own - the calories would kill him - but now seemed a good moment to indulge.

Mycroft returned to the table with two, steaming cups of melted chocolate goodness and placed one in front of John.

“Here. Relax. Don’t worry, there’s nothing in there but milk and chocolate. I’m not my brother.”

John grabbed the cup and took a big gulp, then leaned back in the chair and let the hot beverage do its work.

“I know you’re not your brother,” the doctor said slowly. “And for that I’m grateful. Thanks for letting me have asylum in your home.”

Mycroft smiled. “But of course. If anyone knows how difficult my little idiot brother can be, it’s me.”

“You won’t believe what he did.”

“You can have it on good authority that I will.”

“This case. This bloody case. It’s all happening in a theatre. And Sherlock… is stuck on the solution. He just can’t get it. He’s getting crazy,” John finally seemed to have settled down, and let the ranting begin. “Now all the suspects are theatre actors. Bloody actors, they are. And what does Sherlock do? He needs to put himself in the shoes of the possible suspects. Of course he needs to do that. And how does he do it?”

“Enlighten me.”

“He proceeds to learn every Shakespeare play there is, so he can feel like an actor at their theatre.”

“That sounds like the thing he would do,” Mycroft shrugged. “What’s so bad about that?”

“The bad thing is that he’s been learning them out loud. I didn’t even know how many plays there were. How many sonnets. Oh my god, Mycroft. It never. fucking. ends. Day and night he’s been at it. Day and night. For a whole week. I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t hear him rhyming at 3am in the morning, shouting the roles at the top of his lung. Why is he using so much emotion for this, when he’s like a brick at any other time?”

“Easy, John, easy…,” Mycroft sat down his cup and looked at the doctor with empathetic eyes. “Don’t get yourself too worked up now. You can sleep here, where everything is quiet, no problem. I won’t break out in sonnets in the middle of the night, I promise you.”

“Yeah, thanks, Mycroft,” John sighed. “I’m really grateful for this.”

“Don’t mention it. I have a lot of things to be grateful for, too. All the things that you do for Sherlock. So this is nothing.”

John smiled and nodded.

“There’s a guest room next to mine on the second floor. It also has a bath. You’ve been here before, so you should be able to find it. Please make yourself at home. I have to work in the morning, so I’ll be retiring.”

Draining the rest of the contents of his cup, Mycroft rose to his feet. He placed the cup in the dishwasher and nodded at John, before he left the kitchen to return to his bedroom. He heard John get up and also place his cup into the machine, then following him. They both walked up the stairs and said good night before disappearing into their respective bedrooms.

Mycroft closed the door behind him. So there was that. No crisis. No one had died. It was just Sherlock being Sherlock. He couldn’t blame John for his reaction. In fact, the doctor had endured the detective’s antics for quite a while before snapping. If Mycroft could provide a safe haven for a night, he would do it. For a second, he wondered if this retreat would possibly become a regular thing. He doubted it. John had been living with Sherlock for so many years now, and this was the first time he had asked to be picked up. Mycroft didn’t know why he had picked now, of all times, to start.

Well, they could talk about that in the morning. Possibly.

Mycroft shed his robe and crawled back into the fluffiness that was his bed. It took a few moments for the space to heat up again, but he soon felt himself drifting off into a deep sleep.

\---

Mycroft yawned. His alarm had gone off. Time to go to work. He reached out for his phone to turn off the alarm. Patting his way across the bed to the nightstand he encountered a resistance he hadn’t calculated for. Irritated, he adjusted his head above the blanket to see what blocked his way.

It was the most amazing sight. A sleeping face right next to him. In his bed. Golden hair already shining in the soft morning light, tired features, now relaxed in sleep. Soft breathing through a slightly open mouth. A hand stuck under the face to prop it up.

John. It was John. He was in bed with him. John Watson. John.

Mycroft drew back his hand, carefully not to touch John anymore, as not to accidentally wake him. His thoughts were racing. He had picked up John in the middle of the night, offering him a place to sleep to escape Sherlock’s antics. So far so good. They had talked a while, drinking cocoa. A pleasant chat. Then they had entered separate bedrooms, saying good night. But why would John now be in his bed?

A movement brought his thoughts to a halt. John extended his hand and drew the blanket closer over his shoulder, also drawing Mycroft further to his side in the same motion. The politician shivered. This was wholly unexpected and totally out of anything he could’ve imagined. There was just no data to tell him on how to proceed. He came to a halt.

“Mycroft?”, he heard a soft murmur, which brought him back into reality.

“...yes?”, the other tried.

“I’m sorry for sneaking into your bed.”

“Uh... I… Uhm….”

“I can leave if you’re feeling uncomfortable.”

“I wouldn’t say that…”

“Good. Because I’d rather stay.”

“...why?”

“Because I’d like to lie in bed with you.”

“Why?”

“Damn you Holmes idiots. Because I’d like to cuddle with you.”

As to prove it, John raised his arm and put it around Mycroft, drawing the other man in with a quick motion. Mycroft was totally unprepared and just let it happen.

“Okay?”, John asked.

“Yes… okay,” Mycroft nodded slightly and blushed.

“I’m glad,” John answered and leaned in for a kiss.


End file.
